His mother was furious for a week. Then, she saw Ali and Zara planting a small mango tree in the courtyard. She understood.

Zara's eyes welled up. "Tumhe regret hoga."

Next morning, he called his boss in London. "Sorry, sir. London nahi jaunga."

"Tum nahi aogi to wahan kya karunga?" he interrupted. "Yeh shehar, yeh andheri galiyan, chai ki tapri, tumhari hansi... sab kuch yahan hai. London sirf ek address hai. Tum meri jagah ho."

She laughed. "Pagal ho gaye? Itna bada mauqa—"

Ali had a golden ticket: a UK work visa, a well-paying job in Canary Wharf, and a flight booked for September. His mother, Ammi, had cried tears of pride. His friends threw a goodbye party. But the night before his flight, he sat on the rooftop of his Lahore house, watching the monsoon clouds gather.